


Breath

by Ovipositivity



Series: Folk [6]
Category: Original Work
Genre: Bath Sex, Cunnilingus, F/M, Human/Monster Romance, Modern Era, Teratophilia, fishman
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-16
Updated: 2018-12-16
Packaged: 2019-09-20 12:03:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,474
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17022267
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ovipositivity/pseuds/Ovipositivity
Summary: When you get home from a long day at work, your fishman boyfriend knows exactly what you need.





	Breath

Another day at the office.

That’s one way of putting it. It’s nice and neutral, and it’s got that classic sitcom feel to it, like a laugh track should follow you around to punctuate your speech. “Another day at the office,” _ hahahahahahaha. _

You could put it another way: you could say, “Another bullshit day at the hellscape.” You could say “Another day of soul-draining boredom on the endless march to the grave.” You could even get specific: “Another petty, drawn-out series of snippy emails with that bitchy elf Riinda, which will surely be printed out and waved in your face at your next quarterly review to deny you the bonus you’ve deserved for 18 months.”

However you say it, though, the net result is the same: you’re sitting on the bus, rainwater dripping down your back despite your harrowing run from the shelter of the bus stop, and you’re staring at a run in a pair of pantyhose that can’t be more than a week old. And you’re hungry and the throbbing behind your eyes tells you that you’re going to have a motherfucker of a headache tonight.

You don’t even bother running when the door squeaks open a block from your building. What would be the point? You’re drenched within five seconds. You’ve changed out of your dress shoes, at least, but it wasn’t raining this morning and you wore flats. Flats that are now squelching like you’ve got lilypads wrapped around your feet. You drip all the way in through the lobby, sparing a moment of sympathy for the orc pushing the mop by the door. You drip onto the elevator, drip all the way through the hallway, drip on your doorknob while you fumble with the key, and drip all the way to the bathroom.

And stop.

The first thing that hits you is the scent. Sweet jasmine wafts across the black and white tiles. It’s so thick you feel like you can see it, and that’s when you realize you can. You can see  _ something _ , anyways, a cloud of pink steam rising off the bathtub. Two steps closer and you realize that’s because the tub is full nearly to the surface with pink water. A bath bomb, then, and not one of yours. A few jasmine-scented candles are set on the porcelain shelf that runs the length of the tub, next to a fresh bar of soap, a razor, and a partially-unwrapped Hershey’s Kiss.

You smile.

Your clothes hit the floor with a splat. Your hair is plastered to your forehead and you spit a wet strand out of your mouth as your take your first step towards the tub. It’s big, your bathtub. Huge, actually– you could drop your queen-sized mattress inside and it’d fit entirely. It takes four taps to fill it and the water bill is exorbitant, but it’s worth it. The design and installation were done special for the owner when he bought the place. It was one of the first things he showed you.

Three marble steps lead up into the tub, and you climb them one at a time. At the top, you look down into the water and smile. The remnant of the bath bomb is still in there, fizzing away. The surface is opaque and slightly glittery. It’s still hot. It must have been running while you were riding the elevator up.

He knew.

Of course.

You’re already soaking wet from the rain, so you don’t bother to dip in gingerly. You step in and your leg vanishes to the knee. Then the other. The steam is wafting up and misting on your thighs and you take a moment to enjoy the feeling before sitting. You rest your elbow against the side of the tub, pop the chocolate in your mouth, and lie back with your head dangling over the lip.

It’s a few moments before you realize you’re not alone.

You feel it first on your thigh, a tickling sensation, like someone blowing bubbles. Then on your foot. Then your bellybutton. Here and gone in an instant, a light touch. Something scrapes against your calf. It tickles and you squirm and giggle a little. The touches become more frequent, more insistent. Something rough and sandpapery brushes your inner thigh. Then, with no more ceremony than a few bubbles rising to the surface, something laps at your pussy.

It’s soft, whatever it is, and it wiggles like the tail of a betta fish. It slides between your lips as gently as a breeze and then withdraws again. It teases at the hooded pearl of your clit, leaving you gasping, then goes back to tracing a pattern on your thighs. Up one side and down the other, flickering, flitting to and fro.

You don’t have time for this. You’ve had a shitty fucking day. So you spread your legs as wide as you can in the tub and thrust your hips forward.

Your unseen partner seems to get the message. The thing returns, more insistently this time. It’s smooth and slightly cooler than the water around it. It circles your clit, spiraling in tighter and tighter until it’s flicking the stiffening nub with every movement. It slips inside you and caresses your inner walls. It curves upward and brushes against that special place, the one the magazines all call the G-spot. Your mom claimed it wasn’t real, but now you just feel sorry for her. What’s happening inside your body is real enough. You feel the heat rising, a heat that has nothing to do with the hot water of the tub. You can tell without looking in a mirror that your face is flushing. Your breath starts coming faster. You grip the side of the tub for balance.

Faster now, as if sensing your urgency, the invisible tongue sees to every part of you. It flicks at your lips, fills your passage, even slides along your perineum until it’s teasing the little rosebud of your ass. You sit down flat very quickly. None of  _ that _ … tonight, at least. It returns to your quim and circles it like a predator. Soft touches dart out, seemingly from all directions at once. Sometimes it feels as though there are  _ two _ tongues probing you, or five, or a dozen. The little tremors of pleasure are coming so fast now that they overlap. You feel something building inside you, something powerful, something that rises and crests like–

It hits. Your vision goes white. Your free hand flails in the water, splashing wildly, while the one gripping the porcelain lip of the bath squeezes so hard that you’re sure you’ve left fingerprints. Your toes curl and uncurl. Your mouth opens in a wordless scream. Your eyes slam open and stare at the ceiling.

Slowly, slowly, you return to normal. Your chest rises and falls with each breath. You sink back until your face is barely poking out of the water.

And he appears.

He rises out of the water like an ancient monolith, revealed by the tide. His skin is as blue-green as the sea. Gills ripple in the sides of his neck and his nose— really just two slitted nostrils— flares open and closed. He looks down at you with wide and watery blue eyes, impossibly blue, blue like the sky on the clearest day of summer. Nictitating membranes slide over them and back,  _ click-click _ . He opens his mouth to smile at you and his long pink tongue slides out over his lips. He holds out one webbed hand and you take it gratefully. His talons are resting on the back of your palm, but when he squeezes, it’s as gentle as seafoam lapping at a sandcastle.

“I felt you were having a hard day, Y/N” he says, pressing his free hand to his heart. “Through the link.”

The link. You had heard of it, but until you started dating a ichthys, you didn’t really know what it meant. He feels what you feel. Faintly, like an echo that’s almost played itself out, but he feels it. And he knows what it means.

“I’ll get over it,” you say.

“Riinda making trouble for you again?”

You sigh. He’s really good at that.

“I could sort her out, my love. One short conversation.”

“We talked about this,” you say. “This is my career. Mine. Let me handle it.”

All at once he’s abashed. “I’m sorry, dear, I didn’t mean… I just want to…” For once, he’s at a loss for words. “I just want to help,” he finishes lamely. “What can I do to help?”

You smile. “You could go back underwater.”

He grins at you and vanishes beneath the surface, and soon enough you feel those soft bubbles against your skin once again.

_ God _ , it’s nice having a boyfriend who doesn’t have to hold his breath

 


End file.
